The Job
by LilyBolt
Summary: "Sam's skin felt dry and raw from his close proximity to the fire that now surrounded him on three sides, pushing him ever nearer to the wall behind him. Eventually his back connected with the stone structure, and there was nowhere left to run." Set technically anytime, but earliest seasons probably fit best. No slash. (Written as a birthday present for Er-BearG32.)


**WARNING: Spoilers for the pilot, basically. **

**Author's Note: This could technically take place anytime in the show, but I'm thinking it fits best somewhere in late season 1 or in season 2. **

**Note To Er-BearG32: Happy Birthday my friend! This is just a little something I thought you might enjoy in honor of your day. ;)  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

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Everything around Sam was a torrent of oranges and yellows, and the roar of the flames drowned out the rest of the world, assaulting his eardrums like an over-the-top cinema experience.

Except this experience was all too real.

Sam's skin felt dry and raw from his close proximity to the fire that now surrounded him on three sides, pushing him ever nearer to the wall behind him. Eventually his back connected with the stone structure, and there was nowhere left to run.

Of all the times that Sam had imagined what his death might be, the notion of perishing in a fire started by an angry poltergeist somehow never crossed his mind. In fact, fire in general never really seemed likely. Ok, so being burned in a hunter's funeral pyre after death, certainly. But ironically, Sam had always assumed that _dying_ by fire would be too on-the-nose for him, given his history with the element.

Yet now, faced with such a blazing barrier to freedom, he recognized that his assumptions may have been wrong after all.

It was getting harder to breathe. Each time he inhaled there was less oxygen and more smoke, and his vision was starting to blur. As he got down closer to the ground in an effort to evade some of the dangerous fumes that drifted in the air, he was displeased with the way he collapsed to the floor more than he lowered himself to it.

As his eyes finally began to drift closed, Sam's last, muddled thought was that the roaring fire seemed to be yelling at him.

**OoO**

Dean had finished burning the remains of the poltergeist. The job was done.

But not _his_ job.

Because heavy smoke was now billowing from the old stone building, and though Dean could see that both of the residents Sam was supposed to be evacuating were safely huddled outside their former dwelling, there was no gargantuan sasquatch there beside them.

_Sammy._

Dean was running without a second's hesitation, because this was not the first burning building that had tried to claim his little brother, but Dean would be damned if it was going to be the first to succeed.

Dean charged in, finding the place ablaze internally to the point where any fireman would say the structural integrity had been compromised past walkability. But that didn't stop Dean from scrambling around fiery furniture until he spotted Sam, slumped over on the floor on the far side of the living-room, a burning chunk of the second story that had fallen in blocking his path to the house's exit.

Sam was trapped, and by the look of things, no longer conscious.

"SAMMY!" Dean bellowed as loud as he could.

There was no response.

Thinking fast, Dean tore off his leather jacket and threw it over the closest portion of the caved-in ceiling that was blocking his path to Sam. It smothered the flames just enough so that Dean could rush forward and haul Sam into the fastest fireman's carry he'd ever needed to pull off.

Without the time to inspect Sam's condition, Dean took off toward the exit.

There was a loud crashing sound like thunder, but Dean didn't stop to look back. He clambered across the burning room and through the exit, Sam's prone form thumping against his back with each step.

Once they were a good ten feet away from the house, more thundering ruckus resounded behind them, and finally Dean turned to peer back at the burning building.

Or what was left of it.

The entire house had caved in, and now there was a flaming pile of twisted debris in its place.

Dean couldn't care less that they had only just made it out of that mess in time. None of that would matter if he hadn't gotten to Sam before the smoke could finish him off.

He shouted for the middle-aged couple Sam had pulled out of their home to call 911, and thankfully they had enough of their wits about them to do so without pause.

Meanwhile Dean began checking for his brother's pulse, silently begging every deity he could think of to prove that he hadn't been too late.

_Thump… thump thump… thump…_

There it was!

It was weak. Thready. Not perfect.

But it was _there_, and that meant Sam was alive.

Dean continued to hold his brother's wrist, feeling the reassurance of that heartbeat right up until the ambulance arrived.

**OoO**

When Sam awoke his throat felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper over it about a thousand times, his arms and legs itched, and his lungs stung with every breath.

But before he could even come to terms with his physical condition, his eyes had found Dean.

The older man was sitting in the chair next to his bed with his head in his hands, still wearing smoke-stained clothes and looking like he hadn't left Sam's side in many hours.

"D-" Sam began to say his brother's name, only to be interrupted by a violent coughing fit that wracked his body with pain.

"Whoa! Easy tiger!" Dean said, immediately jumping to Sam's side and resting a hand gently on his shoulder to sooth him. Sam's coughing calmed down eventually, and he was able to take in the look on Dean's face- relieved and worried at the same time, and definitely guilty, too.

"Not your fault," Sam managed to rasp the words out. It hurt to talk, but he was determined to get his point across and nip Dean's self-deprecating thoughts in the bud.

Dean actually chuckled slightly at that. "You know me too well, huh?" Dean added.

Sam smiled at his brother in return, knowing full well that Dean had likely spent the entire time Sam was unconscious coming up with creative ways to blame himself for the situation Sam had ended up in. He'd probably convinced himself that he should've somehow dug to the poltergeist's remains faster so he could have come to Sam's aid sooner, or that he could have predicted the fire and had _Sam_ do the digging so he wouldn't have been in the burning house at all…

"Not your fault," Sam repeated. He coughed again before adding, "It's the job, Dean."

Dean ran a hand through his hair before replying, "I get that, it's just, I guess when it comes to you and fire, I don't know. I kinda revert back to- I mean I think about that night with mom- and… And it feels like I have a more important job."

Sam wasn't sure what Dean was getting at, or how this explained his brother's blossoming guilt, until the shorter man awkwardly added, "But I almost failed this time. I almost didn't do my job, and I'm sorry."

Dean became very quiet then, staring uncomfortably at the floor as if the linoleum held some secret message he needed to decode.

Sam finally understood what his brother was saying.

He still remembered when Dean had confessed to having been the one to carry an infant Sam out of their burning home the night their mother died. The entire experience had stayed with the elder Winchester for years to come, and it was no surprise that it had left him especially worried about needing to protect his kid sibling from a fiery demise.

Sam also recalled when Dean had pulled him from his burning apartment when Jessica had been killed. Sam had been so devastated by the sight of the woman he loved dying that he hadn't even tried to escape the flames himself. If it wasn't for Dean, he'd probably have ended up trapped by the inferno and died with Jess.

The younger man took a deep breath, ignoring the strain it placed on his lungs, and stated carefully, "I don't blame you for caring, Dean. I'm grateful you do. But just because you feel like looking out for me is your job, it doesn't make this situation your fault. You didn't tell the poltergeist to light the building up, and you didn't cave the roof in. But you _did_ save my ass from yet another fire... Can't you just take the win?"

Sam stared intently at his brother until Dean finally raised his gaze once more. They made eye contact, and though Sam could briefly see his brother's instinct to incriminate himself warring for dominance, he could also tell when it lost the battle.

"You sure that's not the morphine talking? 'Cause they pumped you full of some pretty good stuff kiddo," Dean replied with a smirk.

Sam rolled his eyes and answered, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Based on how much everything stings right now, either the drugs wore off, or they weren't too great to begin with."

Dean made a show of grimacing as he said, "You mean this _isn't_ the drugs talking? God only knows how I ended up related to such an emo princess." But he was already standing and heading for the room's exit, no doubt to call someone in to up Sam's dosage of pain medicine.

Sam smiled as his brother walked into the hall in search of a nurse, and he couldn't help but think Dean was much better at his 'job' than he gave himself credit for.

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**Secondary Author's Note: Thanks for reading! If you have a moment, please do leave feedback. It is sincerely appreciated. :) **

**Another Note To Er-BearG32: I hope you enjoyed this! I wanted to cover some hurt!Sam, caring!Dean, and general brotherly bonding, since I know those are a few of your favorite things. lol Again, Happy Birthday my friend! :D **


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